


to every thing there is a season

by iphigenias



Series: a greyjoy and a stark [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Episode: s08e02, F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-23 21:02:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18557803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iphigenias/pseuds/iphigenias
Summary: Seeing Theon again breaks something like a dam inside Sansa's chest.





	to every thing there is a season

**Author's Note:**

> writing het pairings is rare for me so enjoy it while it lasts laidese!! written on my phone in a fit of procrastination so pardon any mistakes. also pardon any mistakes that come from only watching sansa's scenes on youtube since s4
> 
> title from ecclesiastes 3 which is wild because i thought for sure it was from some romantic poet before i looked it up

Seeing Theon again breaks something like a dam inside Sansa's chest. Every bone of her ribcage feels stretched tight against her skin; her heart beats like a wild jackrabbit's, pressing up into her lungs and tugging her breath short on its string. Theon has seen her at her worst; had turned away from her at her worst; had turned back to her at her worst, and that's all she takes to matter.

He is warm, when she embraces him. There is more meat on his bones than there was; he looks only half a ghost now. Living suits him. He smells of the ocean and the road and the north and Sansa clings to it, to him, her hands still shaking from her conversation with the queen but finding something to hold onto in Theon, in the solid stretch of his shoulders, the iron grip of his arms around her back as he hugs her in return.

"Of course," Sansa replies when she breaks their embrace. "Of course the north will have you. Of course I will."

Theon doesn't smile at the words, but she doesn't expect him to. His gaze is warm when she holds it, a soft heat where Daenerys' burns white-hot. Sansa wants - she wishes to reach out, hand against his cheek, reel him back in again - she wants to kiss his forehead, push the curls back from his face, hold his hand and squeeze it and not let go this time, not let go again. Sansa wants all of this and more - and it is like a tide rising up inside of her, the rush of water from the broken dam of her heart - but Daenerys is standing behind her, Theon's men standing all around, and Sansa is the Lady of Winterfell now, as much as it pains her, as much as it hurts to slide that icy mask of cool indifference back over her face.

She steps back, once, twice. "I will let Jon know you are here," she says. "He will assign you in the field."

Theon holds her gaze a moment longer; stiffens, bows his head at her first and then Daenerys; turns and walks off. Sansa watches him go a moment longer than she should.

"I was under the impression Theon Greyjoy betrayed the Starks years ago," the queen states in a cold voice, and it is not a question.

"We have all done things we regret," Sansa replies, and the words burn in her mouth. "Your Grace." She bows and takes her leave. She is of a mind where she will find Theon - she hopes the thought proves true.

*

He is standing before the heart tree when she enters the grove. "My gods were never kind to me," he says in a voice almost too quiet for Sansa to hear. "I used to come here and try to pray. I think that I hoped your gods would be kinder."

Sansa crunches through the snow to stand beside him. She places a careful, ungloved hand over the bloody face. "Gods are not kind. It does not matter which ones we pray to. We must find that kindness within ourselves, always." She slides her hand from the bark and tucks it into the fold of her cloak. Theon is already looking at her when she turns to look at him.

"I prayed they would be kind to you," he says.

Sansa's breath catches somewhere in her throat. "You were," she replies. Theon's eyes close for a moment at her words; Sansa watches his eyelids, the thin, delicate skin and the way they flutter with the movement of his eyes underneath.

"Not for a long time," Theon says, and opens his eyes. Sansa wants to reach out and touch him, to press the flat of her thumb against the corner of his mouth and feel his lips like a snowflake against her skin.

She does.

Theon's eyes close again and he leans, almost imperceptibly, into her palm. "You were kind when it mattered," she says. "I don't care about the rest."

Sansa places her other hand on Theon's other cheek. She waits until he opens his eyes.

*

The sun drips through the winter foliage of the godswood, its refracted light reaching past the leaves onto the snow and two people below. One has hair as red as a heart tree's face; the other curls over into her, his hands gripping gently at the sides of her cloak as if afraid she will disappear if he holds too tight. Her hair covers most of their faces as they kiss; only the sun is there to see.


End file.
